Revived (8 page)

In contrast, Audrey’s breath sounds strangely labored. I wonder whether she’s got the flu or something, with the barfing at lunch and everything.

“Do you feel okay?” I whisper in Audrey’s ear.

“Shh,” she says. “I’m watching the movie.”

I look over at Matt and he’s looking at me, and I’m zapped by a jolt of electricity. I conjure up my flirtiest smile, then sit back and resume my popcorn-tub war with Audrey.

After the show we head to the food court because somehow half of the world’s largest container of popcorn simply wasn’t enough for Audrey. Matt and I find a place to sit while Audrey buys pretzel bites. We awkwardly look anywhere but at each other until I can’t take it anymore.

“Do you like Mr. Jefferson?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” he says. “You?”

“He seems pretty cool.”

Pause.

“I didn’t tell Audrey that you took her phone,” I say, instantly feeling silly for bringing it up. I doubt he even remembers.

Except that he does.

“I know.”

Matt smiles, mostly with his eyes. Someone at the next table over squeals and, curiously, he turns to see what’s happening. I take the opportunity to examine his profile. His skin is still tanned from summer and is perfectly even except for a tiny scar on his chin and a pen-dot mole near his jawbone. Matt’s neutral expression is borderline dark, but when he looks back at me and smiles again, this time showing off his straight, white teeth, it’s impossible not to feel it. I force myself to look away so I don’t say something stupid, like,
You’re gorgeous.

“Thanks for not telling her, though,” Matt says, about the iPhone.

“Of course,” I say. I notice that I’m bouncing my knee under the table, which is something I do only when I’m extremely nervous. “I wonder what’s taking Audrey so long,” I say. Matt shrugs and taps his fingers lightly on the table.

The longer I’m alone with him, the more excitable I get. I pick up a napkin that someone left on the table and start twisting it for something to do with my hands. Then, thankfully, before I origami a crane out of a recycled napkin, Audrey returns.

For one second, at least.

“Crap!” she says as she sits down. “I forgot to fill my soda.” She picks up and waves an empty cup. I notice a little sweat on her forehead even though it’s cool in the mall.

“I’ll do it,” I say, standing quickly. I feel like Matt’s the
sun and I need sunglasses: I’m overwhelmed by him and need a moment to calm down. “You eat,” I say to Audrey. “What flavor do you want?”

“Clear,” she says before popping a pretzel bite into her mouth.

“Got it,” I say. I turn and walk back to the fountain-beverage station by the pretzel place and fill Audrey’s paper cup with whatever brand of clear soda they have. I take a deep breath and shake my head at my girlishness as I grab a lid and snap it on, then shove a straw through it. I walk back to the table feeling surprisingly more centered.

“Do I get a tip for that?” I ask Audrey when I’m about five steps away from her.

“You wish!” she says, laughing loudly.

“Fine, then I’ll take it back,” I say, pretending to turn around.

“Give me my drink!” Audrey shouts playfully. Her voice echoes off the walls, up to the skylight. People all over the food court look up from their greasy snacks. An older lady tsks at the scene we’re making; two young girls giggle to themselves.

And that’s when I see her.

Across the food court, Nora Fitzgerald from Frozen Hills is turning in her chair to see what’s going on.

Like a deer who spies a hunter, I bolt. Only when I round the corner of the main part of the mall and duck into one of those side hallways that lead to the creepy walkway
behind the stores do I realize that I’m still holding Audrey’s drink. When I’m sure that no one’s followed me, I set it down on the floor and text Audrey.

I hit send and wait. Audrey and Matt arrive in minutes.

“You could have just asked for some of my soda, Dais,” Audrey jokes. She picks it up and starts drinking it. “What’s the deal?”

Matt’s standing between me and the main walkway. Instinctively, I stay directly behind him, like he’s my shield. He looks at me funny.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says.

More like Nora did
, I think to myself.

“I saw a girl from my old school who… uh… hates me,” I say. “Can we just go?”

Matt shrugs and Audrey nods. We make our way toward the movie theater’s parking lot, Audrey chattering about mean girls, me looking over my shoulder for Nora, and Matt eyeing me like he knows I’m lying and wants to ask about the truth.

Thankfully, I catch a break: Matt doesn’t ask.

“It’s only a long weekend,” Mason says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as we barrel down Interstate 29 in the dark.

“I know,” I say glumly. “But we weren’t supposed to leave until tomorrow. And wait—what do you mean by
long
weekend?”

“I thought I told you that we’re staying until Monday night,” Mason says. “To ensure enough time for Wade’s test. We called the school and got you excused from Monday’s classes.”

“No, you didn’t tell me that,” I mutter, turning backward in my seat and watching the lights of Omaha fade into the distance. I already regret telling Cassie and Mason
about Nora because it gave them a reason to leave town tonight. Now I’m even more annoyed because I won’t get to see Audrey or Matt on Monday. “I’m not supposed to be on this trip.”

“You weren’t supposed to be seen,” Cassie says without looking up from her computer. I’m surprised by her tone; she’s not usually so snappy. The worst part is that she’s right.

“Why was Nora even in Omaha?” I mutter.

“We checked her email,” Cassie says. “She’s staying with relatives. Something about a family reunion this weekend.”

“Random,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s going to happen with her?”

“Depends on quite a few variables,” Mason says, scratching his head.

“Like?” I look at him expectantly.

“Like whether or not she saw you. And if she did, whether she wrote it off as coincidence or actually believes you’re alive.”

“And?”

“And it depends on what she does with the information.”

“If she goes public—” I begin.

Cassie interrupts. “Then our thirty-year research study is over.”

“But hasn’t this happened before?” I protest.

“To my knowledge, it’s only happened one other time,” Cassie says.

“Twice,” Mason corrects. “There was that one in Missouri.”

“I meant that one. What was the other?”

“Florida.”

“Oh, right,” Cassie says before refocusing on her computer. It bugs me that she’s talking like she was part of the program back then. Recruited straight from college after the program had already started, Cassie’s younger than the other agents. At first she was assigned to the main lab, but her boss thought she’d be better in the field. So when Sydney left, Cassie was reassigned to us. But sometimes Cassie talks like she was with the Revive project from day one.

“I believe that the protocol is watch and wait,” Cassie continues. “A team is monitoring Nora now. If she forgets it and moves on, then we will, too.”

“And what if she doesn’t?” I ask.

“Who knows what he’ll do at this point?” Mason mutters. Cassie shoots him a surprised look, which softens his tone.

“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it,” he says in a way that makes me feel like he’s talking to himself more than to me or Cassie.

“If Nora pursues this, will we have to move again?” I ask.

“Probably,” Mason says honestly.

And only right then, when the sick feeling creeps into my stomach, do I realize that I haven’t been faking it. I
want to live in Omaha permanently. I genuinely like Audrey; my feelings for Matt are real.

Only when I’m faced with the possibility of another move do I realize how much I want to dig in my heels.

Only then do I realize just how much I want to stay.

It’s after one
AM
when I begin to boot up my snail of a computer. I can’t very well take sleek spy technology to school, so, unlike the computers that Mason and Cassie get to use, I have a few-years-old laptop that’s as heavy as a boulder and as loud as an airplane on takeoff.

Our small, independent hotel has a weak Internet signal, so between that and my grandma’s microprocessor it takes forever to get online. After it connects, I log in using my password, which Mason makes me change every month. When my IM program pops up, I check for Audrey’s username—QueenMcKean—to see whether she’s online. There’s no little green dot; she’s not.

I sigh and switch over to my email account. I open a new message and begin typing
Audrey
so her address autofills.

I hit send and watch the email move from my outbox to the ether. Then I scoot off the bed, retrieve pajamas and toiletries from my bag, and walk to the bathroom to get ready to go to sleep. When I return, despite it being the middle of the night, I’m disappointed to find that there’s no reply. Audrey’s emailed me later than this, and now I can’t help but wonder whether she really is mad at me for some reason.

I crawl under the overbleached sheets, wired on soda and adrenaline, confused.

After only three hours of real sleep—which feels more like three minutes—my wakeup call sounds and I want to throw the phone out the window. Instead I roll over, pick up the receiver, and then slam it down again without answering. Then I go back to sleep. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. The interior one, of course.

“Daisy, are you up?” Mason’s muffled voice calls through the wall.

“Yes,” I groan, exhausted.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Mason calls back.

“I am!” I shout back. Mason doesn’t answer.

Annoyed at the daylight, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed, tripping over the laptop cord on my way to the bathroom. I land with a thud on the hideous carpet and lie there, wondering what else could go wrong. Eventually I manage to shower and get ready, which makes me feel a little better, until I remember where we’re going today.

To Wade’s house.

The Zimmermans have upgraded to an even bigger house—for three people—since the last time I was forced to come to Kansas City, so the neighborhood we’re driving through now is new to me. Compared to the McKeans’ development, this one is a poseur. The massive houses are set back from the street, and there are kids out playing on the sidewalks. The difference is that here, the homes are new, matching, and only pretend to have character. I realize that there aren’t individual mailboxes in
front of the homes when I see a postal worker pull up next to a large metal community box with a locked section for each family. Something about not having your own mailbox bothers me.

As if reading my mind, Megan texts.

Right then, we pull into the driveway of a house I can only describe as a non-pink, walled version of Barbie’s dream house, complete with a Porsche out front. The license plate reads
KCHS FP
.